


:: Summer 1976

by MintandSalt



Series: Marauders Stories [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Marauders' Era, Minor Canonical Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Remus Lupin, POV Sirius Black, Werewolf Turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3795262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintandSalt/pseuds/MintandSalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about the Summer of 1976 written through the eyes of five canon/non-canon characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE WEREWOLF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Remus prepares to transform without his friends in a hot evening of July

19:32

Remus turned rapidly away from the clock and started picking up the dishes from the table.

"Honey, it's almost time. You should prepare, I'll handle the dishes"

Hope Lupin touched gently her son's arm and smiled at him. It was a sad smile, her lips were slightly turned upwards but in her eyes, there was no sign of cheer. Remus hated that smile; he hated being the source of his mother's sufferings.

He simply let go of the dishes and sit back in his chair while his mother cleared the table.

A tense silence fell in the kitchen and for a few seconds the only sounds were the clatter of dishes and the water running in the stove.

Lyall Lupin rose up from the table, his chair loudly scraping the floor, and went to the cabinet next to the kitchen's door. When he came back to the table, he was carrying a bottle of firewhiskey. He filled two glasses, took one for himself and placed the other right in front of his son. Remus raised his eyes in surprise looking at his father.

"Lyall, what are you doing?!"

Hope turned from the stove with a shocked look at his husband.

"He's sixteen, Hope. He has probably tried it already with his friends. Sharing a glass with his father won't hurt him"

His father smiled sympathetically at him and Remus couldn't help but smiling him back. Under the stunned look of his mother, they both emptied their glass in a gulp. The older man slammed the glass back on the table decisively.

"See? What did I told you, Hope? No one who drink firewhiskey for the first time would empty his glass so smoothly!"

"That doesn't mean his father should urge him to do it"

She tried to sound reproachful but Remus could hear in her voice she was more amused than disgruntled and he knew she was as much grateful for the change of atmosphere as he was.

"Now," his father began, in a more practical tone "shall we go?"

Just when Remus got up from his chair, a black eagle-owl flew through the open window, landed elegantly on the table and, obligingly bowing his head, offered him his leg where a message was attached. He knew this owl well enough: members of House Black used only black eagle-owls specifically breed and trained to carry their letters in the most courteous way possible.

Remus quickly took the parchment and unfolded it while the bird flew immediately back outside.

_Do not despair, oh my sweet love, for we shall soon be reunited under the moonlight and we shall spend another unforgettable night together, rolling our bodies on the ground in an oh-so-passionate struggle of love and lust._

_Written with the hand of him which desireth as much to be yours as you do to have him._

_S.B._

It was just Sirius-like to find the way to jest even about the gravest things. But it was, after all, one of the reasons Remus loved his friends. With them, there was no sense of tragedy, no haunted looks, no sword of Damocles hanging over his head, no expressions of pity. Heck, James even used to refer to his syndrome as his "furry little problem"! Even if it could be mistaken as lack of sensibility, Remus knew it wasn't. They were well aware of how painful it was for him. In fact, they probably knew it better than his parents did since they were the only ones having witnessed with their own eyes his transformation, more than once. And Remus wasn't keen to let anyone else see it. He imagined it wasn't a pleasant sight.

"Is it one of your friends?"

Her mother was looking at him and Remus put rapidly the letter in his back pocket.

"Er – Yes"

She didn't fail to notice his uneasiness and stared suspiciously at him.

During all his childhood, Remus' parents had been his only friends and companions and there has been no secrets between the three of them. Now that he had his friends from Hogwarts things were different but his mother still had some problems coping with that so she often appeared to be nosey about his correspondence with them.

"We should go, Dad." Remus added hurriedly. His parents didn't know that James, Sirius and Peter were informed of his secret and he wanted to mantain the things as they were to avoid any futile argument about the importance of being discreet.

The clock in the kitchen was pointing at forty past seven when father and son headed through the field towards the solid wood shack near the border of the forest.

The summer sun was slowly sinking behind the hills on the horizon but still the heat was almost insufferable after the comforting chill of the house, thanks to the Cooling Charm his father had cast.

"I've cast a Cooling Charm in the shack too" he reassured him.

"Thanks Dad"

Remus was truly grateful; he couldn't imagine how he would have suffered those temperatures with a fur.

For the past month and a half, the entire country had been crushed by an exceptionally hot and dry summer with temperatures exceeding 35 °C. Rivers were running completely dry, gardens and fields were rapidly turning yellow and arid while people, wizards and muggles alike, were staying hidden in their houses most of the daytime, not daring to face the unforgivable hotness of the sun.

"Any news from the Ministry about this wave of drought and heat?" He asked.

"No," his father frowned deeply, "it's obvious there is a wizard's hand behind it but we haven't been able to track who he is nor the reason why he is doing it. The only thing we know is that he must be very powerful. No common wizard could cast a Modifying-Weather Charm that works on this large scale and for so long"

"Do you think it could be Him?"

"I suspect, yes. It's the most obvious conclusion. Many believe it's Him but few have the courage to say it aloud. And with no proof we cannot publicly accuse Him."

"Here we are," he announced as they reached the shack. "I'll cast the protective charms while you prepare yourself"

Remus entered the shack and welcomed the pleasant coolness. As he began to undress, he could hear his father outside murmuring the charms to prevent him to escape from his wooden prison. As if that wasn't enough, his parents will stay up all night outside the shack, guarding him. He had tried to dissuade them, years ago, but they refused to listen. At some point, his mother went hysterical, shouting how could he even think they could sleep while he was enduring all that pain and Remus stopped trying to convince them.

Once he was completely naked, he folded his clothes and passed them to his father through the window to prevent them to be teared to shreds. He then simply sit on the wrecked wooden floor, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and started trying to de-touch himself from his body as Dumbledore had suggested him. He has found it helped a little to bare the torments of the transformation.

Once, when he was really young, his parents had tried to sedate him with a mixture of Painkiller Potion and Soporific Elixir for the transformation. He still remembered it. The overwhelming panic, the feeling of being trapped in your own body as it rapidly crumble piece by piece and being unable to move or express your agony in any way. From the outside, he looked deeply asleep and unconscious but inside… inside was like hell. That night he had learned that when you can't express your pain, its effect increases a hundred times.

He was now perfectly still, his chest moving slowly up and down, his head completely blank. He could almost see himself from outside.

Back in the kitchen, Hope Lupin raised his eyes at the clock and saw the time hand moving slightly. Eight past eight. A soft white light seeped in through the open window.

Suddenly he felt it, somewhere deep inside him: the wolf. His heart jumped in his chest and his breath got caught in his throat. The world imploded inside him.


	2. THE DISOWNED SON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sirius run away from Grimmauld Place

He walked unsteadily down the aisle of the Knight Bus clutching firmly the rucksack on his shoulder.

The adrenaline that had driven him until a minute before was rapidly leaving his body and he was feeling drained and utterly exhausted. He plopped down on the bedstead at the rear of the bus with a sigh, letting his rucksack fall down next to him and closed his eyes for a moment to recoup.

Loud and decisive steps approached and he shut immedately his eyes open, afraid, for a moment, that he was about to be dragged back in that dark living room.

"Where are you headed, boy?"

The Inspector was looking down at him with dour eyes. He probably thought he was some hooligan that just escaped from some gang fight.

"I don't know, I-"

"This is a BUS," the man interrupted him with irritation "you take it if you need to go somewhere"

"Godric's Hollow. I will go to Godric's Hollow"

"Well, thirteen sickles then"

Panic creeped up his spine. He dragged his hand on his back pocket to find it empty even if he didn't need to. He suddenly was perfectly aware he was pennyless. When he'd thrust out his wand hand to call the Knight Bus he didn't put much thought on it. He wasn't sure they were following him but needed to get away from there as fast as he could.

"I… I don't have anything on me," he said, looking up at the Inspector, a lock of hair partially shielding him from the stern man's frown.

"Off you get, then. Ernie!"

"No. No, please. I will pay, I swear. I'll pay double when I arrive!"

"And how do you think you will find the money to pay when you arrive there?"

Sirius glanced around as if afraid that someone would hear him. A middle-age witch was watching curiously at them but diverted her eyes as soon as they crossed his.

"My friend will pay" he muttered "If you leave me at the Potter's Cottage in Godric's Hollow"

"Potter, you said?" The Inspector sounded surprised. "Alright then. We will be there in about an hour"

Sirius nodded, relieved "Thanks. Thank you"

As soon as the Inspector turned, heading back at the front of the vehicle, he reached out for his rucksack and started digging in it.

He had hurried all his things in it before leaving the house, while howls of rage and the shuffling of numerous furious steps could be heard from downstairs. In his haste to escape from them he didn't pay much attention on what he was taking and what was leaving behind; nonetheless there was one item he'd stuffed inside the rucksack for sure.

Finally, he drew out the mirror and held it with both hands in front of him. He could see his left eyebrow starting to swell and his cheekbone turning yellow.

"James" he called.

A few seconds later, two hazel eyes surmounted by a mass of untidy jet-black hair appeared on the mirror in place of his own reflection.

The sight of his best friend already seemed to sooth and tranquillize him. He almost smiled at his disheveled appearance.

"Prongs, I'm on the Knight Bus. Can I come to yours?" he put on before James could even open his mouth.

"Er. Yeah, sure. Course you can, mate. What's -"

"Can't speak here, mate. But while I've got you, I don't have any money. Could you …?"

"Say no more, Padfoot. What's mine is yours"

Sirius closed his eyes and smiled. At least he knew he could count on James. This certainty filled him with a warm sense of safety.

"Thank you. I'll be there in about an hour."

"Ok, don't worry. I'll come outside when I hear the Bus"

James greeted him with two fingers pressed on his forehead and a reassuring smile before disappearing. Sirius didn't want to see his own beated reflection again and quickly replaced the mirror inside his baggage.

He was feeling defeated. It was the first time he had ever been in the situation of needing to ask his friend for money and he didn't even know how he could pay them back. He could not go back to his parents' after the events of that night. In fact, he remembered, touching lightly at his sore ribs, they probably would have let her kill him. The thought hurt him more then he would have imagined.

He stared at the landscape speeding fast outside the window. Every jolt and sudden halt of the Bus was causing a throb of pain from his wounds and with candles and torches hung on the walls despite the high temperatures, the heat was suffocating. A drop of sweat run down his neck. He leaned his head on the window's glass and felt his eyelid getting heavier.

Just before falling into a half-sleep, he recalled their faces staring down at him. His brother was trying to keep a straight face but his eyes were horrified. Even his father, with that impenetrable expression of his, had a strange light in his eyes that could almost be interpreted as concern. But her mother, she was implacable, no sign of mercy or maternal love, she simply stared at him harsh and cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is directly inspired by the fanfic "In the eye of the Beholder" written by 'I'm a Cuckoo'. If you don't know her, I highly recommend you to read some of her Marauder's Era one-shot stories published in fanfiction.net. She's an amazing writer. I hope she won't hate me for borrowing this scene!
> 
> I'll explain what happened that night at Grimmauld Place when I'll write about Marauders' sixth year.


	3. THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adele finds something about her parents.

From the mirror a girl she knew to be herself was staring back at her. Long and messy dark-chocolate hair hung down her shoulders, a straight nose, pencilled eyebrows and slightly downturned eyes. Grandmother used to say that her eyes were the only thing that made her proud of her. They were the eyes of the Wise and Noble Grey Family, which, as luck would have it, were of an unmistakably deep grey shade.   
Adele had been worried about spending the entire summer with her father. She had never spent so much time with him before. In fact, she had never spent any time alone with him at all since she could remember: Grandmother or Poppy the house elf were always there during his rare visits at Grey Manor.   
He still lived in the small end-terrace house at number 9 of Woodgrove Close, where Adele was born. The once pristine white plaster was coming down and turning grey while the roof was already half green with moss and a rust drainpipe was hanging loose on one side. Woodgrove Close ended just in front of a thick forest where the kids of the neighbourhood often liked to dear each other to play hide and seek, despite their mothers’ explicit prohibitions. The left side wall of n° 9 was completely covered by climbing plants creeping up from the forest ground. It was almost like the vegetation was trying to swallow the entire house. A large tendril crossing the front side of the house, just between the door and the first floor windows, resembled a long leafy finger stretching out from a hand trying to slowly tighten his grasp. For unknown reasons the row of houses on the other side of the street was shorter so that there was no house in front of n° 9, just an empty lot covered in wild grass and a streetlamp that hasn’t worked in years and nobody ever minded to repair, so during night hours Mr. Grey’s residence was almost invisible. All in all, it wasn’t surprising that the inhabitants of Woodgrove Close often tended to forget the existence of n° 9 and his weird and sullen occupant who was almost never to be seen leaving the house. The only thing denoting someone was still living there were the old lace curtains hanging miserably on the windows.   
It had been a month since her first arrival there. Most of the other students had left with their parents soon after the train arrival and within the hour she had been the only one left at platform 9 ¾. Sitting on her trunk she read for hours, raising her eyes from the pages every now and then to watch alternatively to the brick-wall that served as an entrance and to the big wrought-iron clock hanging from the ceilings. Long after sunset, when hunger was starting to get unbearable, she finally realized he wasn’t going to show up and decided to take the Knight Bus.  
She had found him asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly, with a bottle of firewhiskey knocked over at his feet in a stinking puddle.   
Pathetic.   
Adele opened the water in the sink and started splashing her overheated face. The cool charm her father casted that morning had long faded away and even after sunset the anomalous high temperatures didn’t seem to relent.   
She had soon found out that living with his drunken and disturbing parent wasn’t necessarily as bad as she had initially thought. He was a sullen, quite man, not the chatty type at all and most of the time he seemed to simply ignore her presence. Occasionally he would grunt some thanks for cooking or house-tiding or to inform her he was going out.   
That meant Adele was completely free to do whatever she wanted, which was a huge change after years spent with that gaoler of her grandmother. No more etiquette lessons, boring family history lectures and never ending posing sessions with the painter or the tailor for the new set of mantles rigorously embroidered with the coat of arms of House Grey. She could finally stay out lying on the grass with a book of her choice, eating sandwiches and drinking pumpkin juice with a straw like every other normal girl.   
Grandmother had died at the end of April, Manor Grey was left to some niece and Adele was sent to live with her father.   
The family manor was a dour, gloomy gothic-style great house and Adele didn’t miss at all the oppressive atmosphere that reigned there. The only thing she was actually missing was Poppy, her grandmother’s house elf. For many years Poppy has been her only companion and, in a strange way - since their respective roles as master and servant had never been put in discussion - the closest thing to a friend she had ever had before going to Hogwarts.   
Adele had spent hours observing the little elf while she tended at all her daily tasks and that’s how she managed to learn how to cook, sew, wash her clothes and clean the house. Hadn’t acquired these skills, she would be lost right now, since her father’s house was no mansion and there was no house elf to tend to her. Grandmother would be utterly outraged if she knew her granddaughter was forced to lower herself into washing her own clothes without even the use of magic.  
After brushing her teeth she went to the bedroom to change for the night. On one corner stood the old and dusty cradle where she probably slept during her first short period of time in that house. Beside that, the furniture consisted of no more than a single bed, a nightstand, a tiny chest of drawers and a wicker rocking chair buried under a pile of clothes. All her belongings lay randomly inside and around her open trunk beside the bed remarking the fact that she was there only by chance and for a short amount of time: in less than a month she would be back at Hogwarts, her real home with her real family.  
Since there was no writing desk, Adele sat down on her bed with ink, quill and parchment to write a letter to Caleb. Since her first year at Hogwarts, Caleb has become her closest friend and they were both making a point to write each other at least once a week every holyday. They never told or promised each other to do so; it was a mute agreement that started by chance and, as time goes by, grew into a habit.  
By the time she finished writing, it was almost midnight and sleepiness was about to overcome her. She was hoping to have the chance to see her father before going to sleep and ask him for some money to send the letter and buy some groceries in the morning but he still hadn’t come back from his night out.  
He usually slept till noon and she didn’t want to knock at his door in the morning to wake him up but there was nothing for breakfast either and she had hoped she could eat something in that coffee house downtown. She knew he kept at least some money in his bedroom but never dared to go there. Truth is, she was a little curious to see the only room of the house she wasn’t allow to go to.   
“If he cares so much for his privacy” she said to herself, “he should at least make sure his daughter isn’t starving.”   
Jumping out of bed, Adele headed with resolution towards the door. The house was dark and silent. She started walking toward the closed door at the end of the corridor, the wood floor creaking under her bare feet at every step. She stopped in front of the bedroom’s door and couldn’t help but looking behind her shoulders cocking an ear to make sure the house was still empty. Then, with endless caution, she slowly pushed the door open.   
The room was cold and fuggy, with a distinctive hint of old alcohol in the air. The furniture was grim and minimal, no knick-knacks on the shelf, no pictures on the wall, just an old lamp and a glass of water on the night stand.  
It didn’t take long for Adele to find a jar filled with galleons and sickels in the lowest drawer of the large mohagany bureau, next to some old night dresses.  
She laid it on the ground, sitting leg crossed in front of it, and started counting the gold and silver coins. When she had what she thought was enough for at least a three day shopping, she closed the jar again and was about to put it back in place when her eyes got caught by something moving in the narrow space between the bureau’s leg and the wall.  
A painting frame was laying there, covered with a ragged filthy cloth, which had fallen a bit on the up-left corner revealing a single dark brown eye that was unmistakably watching at her. Her heart skipped a beat and for a moment everything around her vanished, everything but that piercing eye staring at her.  
Suddenly the old pendulum clock in the corridor began to solemnly chime to signal midnight.  
Adele swallowed loudly and leaned on all fours towards the painting, grabbed it and pulled it out causing the ragged cloth to fall down on the floor.  
The canvas was ripped by a slash-cut running deeply from bottom-left to up-right and splitting in half the visage of the woman portrayed. Adele flattened the two curled canvas edges with her hands and pulled them back together.  
The woman was still staring back at her with a mocking expression. Her chestnut hair was of a shade lighter than Adele’s and her face was thinner and sharper. Her French nose and mischievous half smile gave her an arrogant look, and the impression she was hiding some secret she didn’t thought you worthy enough to share with.  
Adele was sure who she was even if she had never saw her before.   
Grandmother never wanted to talk about her mother and forbade Poppy to do it either so she really had no information at all. The only thing she knew was that she left her father when Adele was just an infant and ran away taking with her the fortune Father inherited from his own father leaving him flat broke and disgraced. Apparently Grandmother didn’t approve their marriage from the beginning and never forgave him for losing the family’s ring and blazon and kept holding this story against him every time he came to Grey Manor to ask for some money.  
Adele was looking at her mother’s effigy trying to find something to say when her eyes suddenly shifted somewhere behind Adele’s shoulders and she announced, amused, “The little thieve has been caught with her hand in the cookie jar”.  
Adele turned to watch at the door where her father was looking down at her with the most surprised look, holding himself on the jamb, apparently too drunk to stand straight. The room filled with the sharp laugh coming out from the portrait and Adele watched as her father’s eyes turned from confused astonishment to uncontrollable fury within seconds.  
“You…” his voice was mounting with rage but Adele wasn’t exactly sure whether he was talking to her or to the woman in the painting.  
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong -” she tried.  
“SHUT UP! DON’T TAKE ME FOR A FOOL!”  
Looking deranged and out of control, he drew his wand out. The blast was brutal. The ripped canvas went crashing to the wall while Adele felt her head hit the wood floor. Another hiss cut the air and a sharp jolt hit her on the hip. Instinctively she raised her arms to cover herself waiting for the third blow but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes they were filled with tears so it took her some moments to realize that she was covered with galleons, sickels and glass fragments of the jar that broke after the swipe.  
Her cheek was pulsing violently and half of her face was burning like it caught fire. Her father was still there, motionless like a statue, his arm still raised, holding the wand in his hand. Adele didn’t wait a second more than necessary. She got up on her feet and run through the door, past him, faster as she could, with her mother’s cruel laugh still ringing in her ears.


End file.
